The clang of steel echoed through the stifling heat of the marketplace. Sand stirred into a whirlwind as the clamor of merchants and shoppers faded, replaced by the unmistakable sound of boots striking stone—deliberate, confident, and unyielding. A blade glinted in the sunlight, but it was not the weapon that caught everyone’s eye. It was the woman.
She strode purposefully down the grand bazaar of Qartash, a sprawling city at the apex of the ancient Incan Empire’s golden age. The streets were woven with chaos: traders hawked their vibrant textiles, golden trinkets, and obsidian artifacts; whispers of rebellion filled the air; and soldiers watched, clad in ceremonial armor painted with the feathers of jungle birds. Above, the sun blazed down with fierce authority, baking the clay buildings and shimmering against the gilded spires of Qartash’s royal palace. Yet she seemed untouched by the chaos, moving as though the city itself parted for her.
Her attire was a calculated marvel of cultural fusion, melding her royal lineage with practicality. A scarlet cape, woven from the finest vicuña wool and edged in golden thread, billowed behind her with each step, reflecting the fiery sunsets of her father’s kingdom. Beneath it, her sleeveless tunic, dyed in cream and adorned with intricate beaded embroidery, hugged her form with understated elegance, revealing toned arms that carried the memory of battles fought and won. The tunic belted high at her waist with a crimson sash, swayed just above a pair of snug, indigo breeches cut for both style and agility—scandalous to some, inspiring to others. Most shocking, however, were her boots. Pure white, impossibly pristine, the supple leather laced up to her knees, each step shifting the sands unbothered by the filth around her. Scarlet soles peeked from underneath with quiet audacity, like the bite of a blade hidden behind a smile.
Her face was shadowed beneath a wide-brimmed hat fashioned from cream-colored straw but stiffened with ceremonial golden bands. A single feather, plucked from a crimson macaw, arched from the hat’s side like a crown—bold and unignorable. Her long chestnut hair, braided with thin silver cords, glinted in the afternoon light, cascading like a dark waterfall down her back. Every detail of her appearance suggested someone who demanded a second look—but also warned that staring too long could be deadly.
She stopped abruptly by a stall brimming with fruits: thick-skinned tunas and mangos glistening with juice. The vendor, an elderly woman, faltered in her sales pitch as her eyes landed on the ornate dagger strapped to the visitor’s thigh. Its hilt was pure gold, adorned with a ruby the size of a quail’s egg. She recognized it at once—the Crimson Dagger of House K’anliku, a symbol of authority no commoner could lay hands upon. The woman standing before her was no ordinary traveler. She was Aurelia K’anliku, exiled heir to the Incan crown.
“Are they watching?” Aurelia asked softly, her voice low enough to be drowned beneath the din of the bazaar. Her fingers grazed the edges of a mango, but her sharp eyes darted to a corner where two soldiers in jaguar-hide armor whispered to one another before slipping into the crowd.
The vendor’s voice trembled. “Yes. Always.”
“Good.” Aurelia’s lips curved into a sly smile. She flipped a gold coin onto the stall before turning sharply on her heel. The coin spun and wobbled, its gleaming surface imprinted with the sigil of the royal family—a sigil the soldiers would no doubt notice. “Send word to Martuq. Tell him we move at moonrise.”
The old woman nodded briskly, grabbing the coin and tucking it beneath her stall. “May Inti watch over you, Princess.”
Aurelia did not respond; her focus was already elsewhere. The soldiers were closing in, and the busy market offered little protection now. She slipped into a shadowed alleyway, her strides deliberate but just slow enough to bait her pursuers. Her dagger’s ruby glinted in the low light as her thumb brushed the hilt. Despite her exile—or perhaps because of it—she had learned to wield more than just royal titles. She had learned survival, betrayal, and the inconvenient truth that blood was thicker than water but spilled just as easily.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, gilding the rooftops of Qartash in molten gold, the alley was empty save for two bodies sprawled lifeless on the ground. A crimson dagger lay abandoned between them, but Aurelia was nowhere to be found. Somewhere, deeper in the city, another shift in power was already underway, and she moved as its shadow—a ghost of the crown, destined to haunt it.
The revolution would not wait. And neither would she.
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: White Off-the-Shoulder Top, High-Waisted Indigo Denim Jeans, and White Heels: Effortlessly Chic Urban Style
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